Lady Jayne Disappears Read online

  © 2017 by Joanna Davidson Politano

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-1110-8

  Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Author is represented by Tamela Hancock Murray with the Steve Laube Agency.

  To my dad who, like Aurelie’s father, inspired a love of fanciful stories in my young heart and always had time to spend with the little girl who shadowed him.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Sneak Peek at Joanna’s New Book

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  Walk among the normal folk by day, but in your heart know you are Robin Hood in disguise.

  ~Woolf Harcourt

  LONDON, ENGLAND, 1861

  “Well, Miss Harcourt. Are you, or are you not, Nathaniel Droll?”

  I squirmed on the chair across the desk from the old managing editor they called “Ram.” How awful it was to hear that precious name on the man’s meaty lips, but of course it was only a name to him. “That is a complicated question, sir.” The crinoline under-layers of my skirt poked my legs, which grew warmer with each minute I spent in the offices of Marsh House Press.

  “So is switching the final chapters at the last minute. You will forgive my doubt when a snit of a girl comes in here, supposedly on behalf of a nationally famous author, yet appears to be no older than his first novel. Have you proof of your connection to him?”

  This would take a great deal of explanation. Perhaps it was time to retreat. But no, this had to be done. Turning back now meant the final installment of the novel would release in a few days, and the man of my dreams would find out how deeply I was in love with him. It was not possible to imagine an existence beyond that dreadful occurrence.

  “Here is one proof.” I set my notebook before the balding bulldog of a man who reigned over his desk full of papers and clutter. “Is it not the same type Droll has sent you for years?”

  He whipped through the book with harsh fingers, tearing a page at the top, then shoved a pen and inkwell toward me across the desk.

  Of course. I would need to show him my handwriting for comparison.

  Leafing to an empty page, I drew the pen from its heavy well and wrote, I am Aurelie Harcourt. I collected Nathaniel Droll’s pay at 32 Headrow Lane in Glen Cora, Somerset. The letters formed by my shaky hands had taller loops and were slightly less perfect than the rest of the writing in the book, but it was an unmistakable match.

  He yanked the book toward him, inspecting it as seconds ticked by on the clock behind him. I focused on the ivory-topped fireplace in the room’s shadows, counting the ticks.

  Finishing his assessment, he leaned his heavy frame back against the chair and studied me, every button and tuck of my brown traveling gown. Thick fingers pulled at his jowls. “Well, well. I’ve always wanted to meet the great enigma who has earned me so much, and here he sits. A woman. A rather plain one, at that.”

  As if I was unworthy.

  “Transcriber.” My voice cracked. “I’ve been his transcriber for years.”

  “How is it you came to know Nathaniel Droll?” His eyes narrowed.

  Could I refuse to answer? He hardly believed me anyway, that much was obvious.

  “A long, uninteresting story, sir. But right now I am merely here to enquire about changing that ending.” I waved a hand toward the notebook before him.

  Holding his spectacles in place, he studied the book, then me, then back to the book, his left eye nearly disappearing beneath the folds of skepticism. “He’s never done this before.”

  “This book is different.”

  He growled, squeaking his chair back and folding his arms. “Tell Mr. Droll he is lucky. First, because you caught us before we printed this installment. Barely. Second, because his fame has earned my pleasant side today.” He lit an ornate pipe and puffed, exhaling tiny balls of smoke.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

  “Fortunately I’m a wonderful person.” He waved the gathering smoke away from his face, grimacing at it.

  A trapped breath released from deep in my chest. I’d succeeded. Everything was safe. “So you’ll change it?”

  “Well, that depends. If I hate this ending, I shall use the one he already sent. It has been approved, and this has not.”

  I straightened against the unforgiving spindles at my back. “I cannot let you print that.”

  “Oh, oh, oh, the little transcriber forbids me.” He swiveled in his chair and tapped his pipe in a tray. “I’ll not take risks with the final installment. Sales are predicted to break records at this house, and that ending will not disappoint.” He slapped his hand on the desk to emphasize his words. “The first chapter sells the book, but the last chapter sells the next. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir, but I must ask that you—”

  “Where the devil did you come from, anyway?”

  “Well, I—”

  “We’ll have to cut his pay, you know.”

  “That will be fine. But can I—”

  “Just how old are you?”

  Frustration eclipsed my self-control. “Two hundred and three. How old are you?” I shut my mouth behind the escaped words.

  A few silent puffs came from the man behind the desk as he gave a wry smile. His eyes did not leave my face. “Now you are someone I care to speak with.” He leaned forward, the leather chair creaking under his weight. “So, little thing. Tell me exactly how you came to be in possession of Nathaniel Droll’s notebook. How his work bears your handwriting.”

  “I cannot do that, sir.”

  “I understand completely.” He swiveled away from me, foot over foot. “And I can no longer consider printing your new ending.”

  Poised in the little wooden chair his assistant had brought, I bit my lip and gripped the arms. “I suppose I could tell you a brief version of the story. If you promise to strongly consider the switch.”


  He whipped around to face me again, eyes glowing, elbows anchoring him to the desk. “Nonsense. If we’re to discuss Nathaniel Droll, I want every detail. Understand? Every little detail. I want to know who exactly is hiding behind that pen name and what his story is. Start with your part, and please do tell me about the imposters too. I’ve been dreadfully curious.”

  With a shuddering sigh, I glossed over memories not worth revisiting. Perhaps it would be sufficient to tell him only what happened in the last few months. That would cover the important pieces. With a fortifying deep breath, I slipped into my one and only talent—storytelling. “It started in Shepton Mallet debtor’s prison, which is where I am from. That is, until recently.”

  1

  Lady Jayne dreamed endlessly of escaping to something different, of living a fascinating and dramatic life—until she did.

  ~Nathaniel Droll, Lady Jayne Disappears

  A FEW MONTHS EARLIER, SOMERSET, ENGLAND

  It must have been the rain that felt so wrong that day, nothing more. It spit at my face and drenched me. I huddled close to the safety of the Shepton Mallet Prison walls as a carriage progressed toward me down the broken street, lanterns swinging. No, it was everything. Everything felt wrong without Papa. But this night, it was something specific.

  Perhaps it was the sleek carriage, coming to fetch me to my new home, that looked jarringly amiss in this section of town after dark. Why hadn’t Aunt Eudora come in broad daylight so we could stand outside and relish our reunion, hugging and sinking into shared grief? Surely she knew this was not an area in which to linger once the candlelit windows of decent folk were shuttered. Damp fog clogged my senses, choking my shallow breaths. She was not ashamed simply because of the pickup location, was she? No, I was family.

  Family that had been abandoned by them for years, though. Perhaps I expected too much.

  I squinted at the vehicle as it neared and I frowned. The outline of a top hat, not a lady’s plumage, filled the foggy windows. Who else would come to collect me?

  What if, what if—and this would make a brilliant scene in a future novel—it was not an old widowed aunt coming for the lonely girl, but her own beloved father, alive and well? The emotion of such a reunion billowed in me until I very nearly ripped open my trunks, right there in the rain, and pulled out a notebook to record the beauty of it.

  Stop. I had to stop thinking about him.

  The coachman reined in the puffing horses, who stamped their impatience in the foggy moonlight, and I held my breath, crouching back into the prison doorway. When the caped gentleman swung down into the rain, I longed for those blank pages even more. What a perfect villain, tall and dark-suited, a forbidding arch to his wide shoulders as he jogged through the puddles. Oh, to pin this man to paper with the exact words. But it was a generally understood rule among writers that the most brilliant ideas only came when one was not within reach of pen and paper.

  Approaching, the man lifted his gaze to the prison, dark judgment etched deep in the brooding lines of his face. He removed his hat, nearly useless in the deluge, and swiped rain off his face with his sleeve. Upon spotting me in the shadows, his face darkened further, eyebrows hooding sharp eyes. He was more ominous close up. Threatening, even. I backed up until I hit the rough stone wall. And now, there was no one left to protect me. Not a single person who might report me missing to the constable. Like a kite with its string suddenly cut, I was alone.

  The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

  I’d never had to depend so fully on the Lord before this, and it seemed now he was all I had.

  My nails dug into the dirty stone at my back. The storm swelled and rain pattered against my shoulders, pouring down my neck and soaking my dress. Why were we not running toward the carriage and huddling under its roof? The man squinted against the shower, as if waiting for me to speak and explain my presence. Yes, he felt it too. Something was wrong.

  My small voice cut through the rain. “You are from Lynhurst Manor?” Perhaps I’d been mistaken, and Aunt Eudora’s carriage was still on its way.

  “Yes, I am.” Rain dripped off the clumps of hair plastered to his forehead.

  “Oh.” But neither of us moved. Was he waiting for my permission? “These are both mine.” I indicated my two weathered trunks, which only deepened his look of confusion. “I am Aurelie Harcourt.”

  “Silas Rotherham.”

  Rotherham. So dark and sinister. Fitting.

  After a few more awkward seconds, he reached for my elbow and propelled me toward the carriage. A head jerk toward the coachman sent the man scrambling toward my trunks. Certainly, those trunks were not of the same caliber as my new sapphire-colored dress, which billowed around my stockinged legs over layers of fabric in a sopping, yet stylish, mess. He must wonder which I was—rich or poor. Yes, that would explain the frown.

  The first trunk thudded overhead as I mashed my dress through the too-small door and fell onto the front-facing seat, the man taking the one across from me. How did real ladies manage it every day? The dress was the finest article of clothing to ever touch my body, and despite having owned it for three days already, I did not know how to carry it on my slender frame. Even more so when it hung in wet yards of heavy cloth about me.

  Perhaps it had been a foolish use of my scant funds, this costume designed to make me fit in when the rest of me did not. Even more foolish I’d been to give up my last pennies, assuming this wealthy family would hasten to meet all the future needs of a niece they had not seen fit to even meet before now. How fanciful I was.

  But I had yet to locate Papa’s savings, wherever it was. All those paychecks I’d gathered from Marsh House Press must amount to something that would sustain me. And with death freeing the man of his debts, I could use that money for whatever I needed.

  I placed my soggy hat on the seat beside me and wrung my loosened hair onto the floor of the carriage. “It soaks right through a person, does it not?”

  The man peeled off his wet coat, struggling out of the sleeves. By instinct born of a lifetime of recognizing need and rising to it, I reached across the space to assist him. When my fingertips touched his warm linen shirtsleeve beneath the coat, he pulled back, slinging his coat to the side, blinking at me with a mixture of shock and mild offense.

  I jerked my hands away and backed into my seat with a thud, hurt warming my wet cheeks. Of course, this was a different world than Shepton Mallet Prison. Women were not for soothing and helping unless they were paid to do it.

  A grunt outside drew my attention to the window. The coachman yanked in vain at my second trunk, which had taken three men to hoist outside hours ago. I bit my lip, picturing its contents. He’d never lift it alone.

  With a dark look, the man across from me stood and forged back into the rain to assist the coachman. Both men strained to lift the precious cargo between them, and they slung it with a thud and a crack onto the back. Lightning pierced the black sky as the two men ran for the cover of the carriage.

  Mr. Rotherham hefted himself back inside, now coatless and dripping wet. Almost immediately the carriage lurched forward, reins jingling, and I collapsed against the leather seat. Just that quick, we were leaving behind the entirety of my short life.

  Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t—

  But I did. Fingertips clutching the window frame, I pressed my face to the glass for one last lingering glimpse of home.

  “Have you left something behind?”

  “No.” I moved back into the seat, pushing my shoulder blades into the leather cushions. Leaving that place was the death of so many things.

  The man recovered his breath for several moments, flexing until he found comfort in the tiny rear-facing seat. I fingered the flannel blanket beside me. He would not want me to hand it to him. But when his trembles convulsed into a full-body shiver, the sight compelled me forward, urging the blanket on him. He accepted it without glancing at me and pressed it into his wet clothes to soak up the rain. When
he looked up, he pinched his lips in a reserved smile, revealing two fleeting dimples framing his mouth like quotation marks, and I finally relaxed a bit.

  “I assure you,” he said, “there are plenty of stones at Lynhurst. You need not bring any with you.”

  “They’re books.” I shivered, watching the shapes of thatched homes fly by. It must be utterly clear to him that I was a fake, not one who belonged at Lynhurst Manor. Up until a few days ago, my life had consisted of a one-room cell, my gregarious, boisterous father, and our three pieces of furniture. And stories, of course. He’d shown me how to thrive within our odd surroundings—reciting psalms, caring for the weak, loving people—but he’d never taught me to act as one of the elite class in which he himself had been raised. There had been no need.

  Homesickness engulfed me. But how could anyone be homesick for such a place?

  “Thank you for indulging me, with the books.” I indicated the back of the carriage where my trunks lay.

  “Of course. Books are essential nourishment to the mind.”

  This answer begged more questions, but I closed my lips. Any little word might be the wrong one. Lantern light bounced over his face as the carriage hurtled forward.

  “I suppose they are the normal fare.” The man’s voice broke through my thoughts, deep and forced. “Miss Austen, Clennam, Wordsworth, and perhaps a few hymnals.”

  He really was quite poor at making conversation. “I prefer the serials.”

  “Of course.” His slight frown, a mild look of judgment, turned my stomach. As if my love of serial novels helped him to determine I resided lower than him on the social ladder. Wouldn’t he be surprised to find that most of the books filling my heavy trunk were blank.

  I pinched my lips to keep from spilling my delicious secret—the one that gave me more worth than anyone could guess. If only I dared say the words aloud. Pardon, sir. Have you heard of Nathaniel Droll? Well, I happen to know the real man who masquerades under that pen name. Ah, the look of shock that would splay over his arrogant face.

  “Novel characters make the finest friends, so I can hardly fault your attachment.” He straightened the hat that jostled on his head to the rhythm of the carriage wheels and smiled. “Flesh-and-blood people are more complicated and difficult to know.”